I have a few simple rules at my house.
- Push in your chair
- Close the door
- Refill the Q-Tips
- Don’t leave your water laying around because the cats never learn
- No farting during serious conversations
- No more run-by moonings during Skype calls, because that’s how you break your dick
- You can’t wear a shirt and no pants
- We do not respond to texts referencing our friend’s children’s genitals for any and all reasons
- When we brush our teeth, we do the toothpaste dance
- You can’t complain about being sick if you refuse to take medicine
- We do not engage with homeopathic medicine practitioners
- We no longer accept strange statues onto our yards
- You cannot eat my cookies
- I can eat your cookies
- The side table goes there because I fucking want that table there
- The toilet lid is always down because the cat is too dumb not to drown in it
- Rubberbands go in a locked box in a cabinet because the cat almost died gorging on them
- When a wasp enters a room, that room becomes an immediate gas chamber
- You cannot keep or wear boxers that have holes in them large enough for your dick to roam outside the fabric
- We never turn away Girl Scouts selling cookies
- But you cannot eat my Thin Mints
- You are the only one who can buy cat litter and dog food because the bags are heavy as fuck and fuck up my shoulder
- You’re not allowed to leave the room when your mother pulls out a photo album
- I’m not allowed to leave the room if my cousins corner you for a ‘beer and a chat’
- I’m not allowed to ‘fuck anyone up’ for wearing clothing I deem inappropriate
- If we’re hungry for anger, no one is allowed to speak with us
- The person who needs the least amount of sprinkler relocations to water the yard wins everything
- You must ventilate the room when reheating anything with sauerkraut and also send me written notification
And last, but certainly not least:
THERE ARE TO BE NO BALLS AT EYE-LEVEL
Doesn’t that seem like a simple rule? For a while, it was not so at my house. There were balls to be had at any level and on any surface until I set some goddamn rules while crying naked in the shower and shouting them at my husband through the bathroom door.
I’m a sad person, but that’s a fucking funny story. Also, it’s published in the new book from In The Powder Room, You Have Lipstick On Your Teeth, And Other Things You’ll Only Hear From Your Friends In the Powder Room. I’m in there with people who are actually talented, which is why it’s so baffling that they A) Let me contribute and B) Allowed the first time I’ve ever been published to be about my husband’s balls. There is no end to my majesty.
It’s cheap and funny and there are so many amazing essays in there that you’re gonna shit if you don’t get it. You’ll shit if you do, too. The book has no laxative qualities that I am aware of. Unless you were to shit yourself reading it. Man, I am amazing at promotional work.
You can buy the book on Kindle or in paperback on Amazon, and it’ll be like an internet version of sucking my dick if I had one.The Last Post: From Dana The Biped: Dear Karisa, You manage to look cute with a spoon in your mouth, in a photo of you with creepy not-Barbies, and falling off a chair. I can’t manage to look decent without those things. Would you mind very much if I hated you a little bit for that?